Plastic Jesus…

Another nativity scene

Kids in tea towels and cardboard donkey ears

A tinselled angel picking her nose

And a manger knocked together by Joseph’s dad

From bits of broken shed

 

Jesus may be plastic

But Mary holds him tight

 

Cameras flash back from stars

Wrapped in baking foil

And I smile

Another proud father

 

It is all so ordinary-

The small school chairs

The smell of stale milk and disinfectant

The creak and rattle of the old piano

As the children sing again

To welcome the Christ child

And the end of term

Ethical capitalism debate podcast…

If you are interested in the reformation (or destruction) of our capital driven economic system, then check out this podcast from a recent debate held by the Oasis’s Charities Parliament-

Does capitalism need reforming, replacing or is it fine just as it is?

Listen to the lively debate around the question of our generation with representatives of Occupy London Stock Exchange, former investment banker Ken Costa and Dr Luke Bretheton.

You might also be interested in checking out some of the stuff on the Occupy Movement’s ‘Occupy Cafe’ website. It full of activism, protest and even poetry! Any activist website with poetry will get my vote…

I really liked this for example-

America

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud

Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

~

Whose walls are made of Radio Shacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes

Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,

~

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,

He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu

~

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them

Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

~

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds

Of the thick satin quilt of America

~

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,

or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

~

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,

It was not blood but money

~

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills

Spilling from his wounds, and—this is the weird part—,

~

He gasped, “Thank god—those Ben Franklins were

Clogging up my heart—

~

And so I perish happily,

Freed from that which kept me from my liberty”—

~

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad

Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

~

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes

And I think, “I am asleep in America too,

~

And I don’t know how to wake myself either,”

And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

~

“I was listening to the cries of the past,

When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.”

~

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable

Or what kind of nightmare it might be

~

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you

And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

~

Even while others are drowning underneath you

And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

~

And yet it seems to be your own hand

Which turns the volume higher?

Tony Hoagland

There is also quite a lot on the site about faith- and how this might stimulate or oppose activism for change. Check out this or this for instance.

Let’s join in the conversation at least friends…

Pregnant…

 

A lovely word.

A female word that sometimes excludes men, but more often contains and holds us all.

A word containing the unknown, the still-to-be, the potential to succeed…

And the potential to utterly fail.

It is a word that is synonymous with Advent. Waiting in hope, uncertainty, and perhaps even fear.

Waiting for something to change, for something to be born into the mess of us all.

I read this today– another one of Cheryl Lawrie’s lovely poems.

Perhaps our mistake is thinking
that love will always come
in the shape we have known it:

a happy ending
a new beginning
a christ-child.

In this pregnant pause
while the earth holds its breath
waiting for what
it does not know,
let us have the faith
that even we,
with all our wise
and cynical
knowing,
would not imagine
the shape that love
will take

and instead just
have the faith
that it will come.

The edge…

This is a poem about death, written in around a simple story I heard recently. I am also reminded of this.

“The ocean goes on for ever”

Said the ripple

Just learning how to be a wave

Learning how to catch the reach of the wind

How to rise like an athlete at the drop of a flag

And to skim over the skin of the sea

Fringed by the speed of movement

~

But the ringing horizon was a

Crystalled panning lens

That one day found the edge

Of a jagged shadow

Against which wave after wave

After wave after wave

Was broken

~

“What is this terrible thing” cried the ripple

“That would turn us white then end us?”

~

So an older wave shouldered close

And offered some compassion;

“Have no fear now little one

Let’s roar and make commotion

For what you are is more than wave

You are made from mighty ocean.”


Another storm…

Storming

 

Ripping and rending

Bending then breaking

Scuttling and guttering

Litterbugs whirling

Hold fast to the railing-

Here comes the storm

 

Slates start their scissoring

Lifting and sliding

Chimney pots clinging

Open mouth howling

Insurance claims pending-

Here comes the storm

 

Foaming and crashing

Spray plume tongue lashing

White horses raging

Anchors are scraping

The shore all white teething-

Here comes the storm

 

Sirens nee-nawing

Some cars aquaplaning

Power lines sparking

Snaking and falling

Gadgets are dying-

Here comes the storm

 

 

 

 

Poetry as narcissistic obsession…

Michaela pointed this out to me the other day- Poetry tree.

Apparently someone has been carving meticulous incredibly complicated and laborious sculptures out of books, then leaving them anonymously in various locations in Edinburgh- the Scottish Poetry Library, the National Library of Scotland, the Filmhouse, the Scottish Storytelling Centre.

These creations are rather wonderful- the person (or people) who made them are creative, painstaking and have clearly moved people- check out this article in the Guardian.

I feel strangely unmoved however- and I am not sure why. These represent something that I would normally get excited over- creativity given generously- quirky and thought provoking.

I think it is because in these objects of art, I see something of my own creativity. They appear to be rather obsessive private works, packed full of detail and ambiguity, suddenly ‘out there’.

Poetry is a very selfish activity.

My own version of this selfishness starts with little fragments of ME- what is meaningful to me, what I have seen and felt and understood. The forms of words that emerge from this selfishness then allow me to ‘work it out’ somehow.

The thought process are a little like the operation of the scalpel on the paper sculptures above- a slice here, a word cut here. And it is me doing the slicing, of my words.

What happens next is interesting- because for (my) words to be fully alive, they need to be heard by others. My way of doing this is to wear them on my sleeve  which can be a rather vulnerable thing to do, but the rewards mostly outstrip the risk.

Is this a problem, this narcissistic core at the heart of artistic process? I suppose, to a certain extent, it is simply is what it is. Art has an origin, and the art is only possible because of who the originator is.

But I still find myself uncomfortable- perhaps this is because I still believe that the highest calling we have as human spirits is not to be noticed and lauded for our creativity. Rather the best of what we are is when we live for others.

I realise there is a terrible danger in art for purpose- it easily becomes propaganda. But the things that move me most have something to say. I read this recently and muttered a little ‘Amen.’

The poem that refuses to risk sentimentality, that refuses to risk making a statement, is probably a poem that is going to feel lukewarm. So I am in favour of work that if it fails, fails on the side of boldness, passion, intensity.

Mark Doty

Back to these paper sculptures. I do not mean to be ungracious- and Michaela for one finds them delightful. How about you?

 

Vending machine…

The coin fell        and the

Machine burped into action,     its belly

Rumbling,                      promising the delivery of

Instant overly salted,         high

Cholesteroled       delicious            snacking

Something in its     shiny face

Uncurled, and the bag of crisps                leaned

Towards me               almost dropping.

Almost

but      not

quite

And I am left       hungry

But perhaps the                healthier for it

Perhaps the wiser

Without it

First Sunday of Advent…

 

Advent

 

There is no patience in this waiting

No watching from windows

Or straining for the whispered step in the distance

 

There is no surprise in this coming

It has been shouted by stars

And sung from supermarket speakers

 

There is no mystery in this telling

It is a story told and sold a million times

Asset stripped and bankrupt

 

There is no meaning in this madness

All this plastic decoration

All this hollow celebration

 

Yet still

He comes

Bruce Cockburn does Alan Ginsberg…

Very few people write lyrics that catch in my brain like Bruce Cockburn.

I am sat listening to some old vinyl this morning, toast in hand, before we head out into the lovely Sunday morning, and was captivated by this song again.

It is an outpouring of images and words from the road.

Silver wheels

High speed drift on a prairie road
Hot tires sing like a string being bowed
Sudden town rears up then explodes
Fragments resolve into white line code
Whirl on silver wheels

Black earth energy receptor fields
Undulate under a grey cloud shield
We outrun a river colour brick red mud
That cleaves apart hills soil rich as blood

Highway squeeze in construction steam
Stop caution hard hat yellow insect machines
Silver steel towers stalk rolling land
Toward distant stacks that shout “Feed on demand”

100 miles later the sky has changed
Urban anticipation — we get 4 lanes
Red orange furnace sphere notches down
Throws up silhouette skyline in brown

Sundogs flare on windshield glass
Sudden swoop skyward iron horse overpass
Pass a man walking like the man in the moon
Walking like his head’s full of irish fiddle tunes

The skin around every city looks the same
Miles of flat neon spelling well-known names
USED TRUCKS DIRTY DONUTS YOU YOU’RE THE ONE
Fat wheeled cars squeal into the sun

Radio speakers gargle top 40 trash
Muzak soundtrack to slow collapse
Planet engines pulsate in sidereal time
If you listen close you can hear the whine

Very Ginsberg. But Ginsberg  never played the guitar like this…

Call me a groupie (I do come  close to hero worship with this man) but I came across these clips the other day and could not resist re-posting. He is talking about an album that I reviewed here– and to be honest I was not very kind. By way of some slight redress, I offer these two clips…

Then a little more nodding to Ginsberg-